


Platinum Egoists

by Vivian



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Sibling Incest, Titus centric, space incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 11:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4604268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Titus dreams of his brother. When his flesh is cool and his bed empty.<br/>Balem is rust-coloured and would be rough to the touch. But Titus never quite reaches him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Platinum Egoists

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks go to angelas & canterville for beta-ing!  
> This space trash family has stolen my soul.

 

 

**i.**

 

Sometimes Titus dreams of his brother. When his flesh is cool and his bed empty.

He awakes with a ripple going through his body. He takes a breath. Later, he can never remember. Except that Balem is always there. The line of his jaw or the tilt of his head, the way his fingers move while he speaks like a mantis arranging its limbs.

He is rust-coloured and would be rough to the touch. But Titus never quite reaches him.

 

After millennia they have learned to hate each other for the right reasons.

And oh, they have so many of those.

 

 

**ii.**

 

When Titus is but a child he watches Balem from the corner of his eyes. Watches how his older brother kisses his mother's hand. She does not smile then. They talk about matters of state until dawn. Titus see his brother's lean figure as he slouches back to his room as he hides behind one of the many columns. No dignity remains in Balem's stride. When the first dark-red rays of the morning sun fall on his face, his eyes are dim. He looks so tired.

 

That morning their mother does not talk to Balem and instead takes Titus for a walk on the beach. They abide on Aïdēs, the planet with its five black rivers, wide as seas, all flowing into one ocean dark as night. The sand underneath their feet is pure white. It will powder their skin and dust their hair. It is not healthy to breathe it in for too long, but his motherloves it so. She takes his hand as she always does. Her steps are quick and strong and her smile more radiant than the two suns gracing this planet. They stay for three long hours, walking until their feet hurt. Their skin is white from the sands. One might think they have become ghosts.

His mother's kiss upon his brow and his hand in hers.

 

Later that day he slips into Balem's chambers. There is a certain perfume in the air, dried dates and a hint of camphor. Titus closes his eyes and breathes in.

Suddenly the door opens. He hides beneath a small table. Balem comes in, dismisses his guards. Then Balem stands still. He calls his name. Titus swallows. Carefully he crawls out from under the table.

— Come here, Balem murmurs.

When he does, his brother backhands him. His head snaps to the side. The skin rips where Balem's rings meet his cheek.

 

 

**iii.**

 

Titus remembers those long summers. Kalique would tell him fairy tales from the peoples of harvested planets. Strange stories of creation itself, of star-crossed lovers, of doom and death, prophecies, prayers. Those stories Kalique had stolen from an electric archive of their mother's. It is their first secret.

Kalique loves beautiful things. It is why she can never stay mad with him for long.

She brushes his hair and clothes him in the finest robes. When he is fifteen she gives him a noble-bred splice for bedding. The girl is extraordinary. Titus keeps her for two months.

Every now and then Kalique comes into his chambers when he beds a girl. Quietly she sits down, the corner of her mouth curled upward just a little. She always brings a book and sometimes she reads to him while he takes his pleasures. When the splices are gone, she lies down next to him and he carefully strokes her hair. They talk until deep into the night and fall asleep next to each other. Kalique wakes first. Most times she leaves early. Her perfume lingers on the cushions.

 

 

**iv.**

 

When he is forty-five Kalique insists that he uses the nectar for the first time. She is watching him as he walks into the bath. It is a strange delight to think how many died to make this. People not much younger or older than him. Only of the best stock, manufactured and harvested by Abrasax Industries.

A burning sensation. A tingling in his spine. He breathes fire, and like a creature of old he rises.

Kalique kisses his cheek. She strokes along the line of his collarbone.

— Now you are beautiful again, she says.

 

 

**v.**

 

Leisure is the sin of the youngest. Titus enjoys it thoroughly.

The years flow by. He knows how to behave in court. Slowly he also learns what he needs to know in order to survive on the market. A tedious business really whenever numbers are concerned. He has no passion for it.

— Nor a talent, as Balem remarks with a smile one evening at dinner.

If not for this comment Titus might never have taken an interest. From then on he makes sure to be a thorn at his brother's side. Their mother regards it kindly.

At his age Balem had already sat to their mother's right side in the council. He is both her scholar and adviser.

She kisses Titus first when they say their good-night, then Kalique. Balem leaves without another word.

 

 

**vi.**

 

Titus is there when it happens. The legionnaire walks towards his brother. Balem has his back turned to him. Time slows down. There is something in the legionnaire's eyes. A brightness feral and hungry. And Titus _knows_. He watches not doing a hand's turn.

Then Balem is on the floor screaming. The beast above him. A dreadful, tearing sound — gurgling — guards rushing, shouting, someone pushes him to the side — the legionnaire is bashed to the ground. His head falls to the side. His mouth is smeared with blood. He writhes and spits out his brother's larynx. All the while Titus can't stop himself smiling.

 

 

**vii.**

 

— Do you sometimes feel like a monster? he asks Kalique.

— It is not an _un_ pleasant feeling is it? Kalique asks.

— No. No, not at all, Titus says.

 

 

**viii.**

 

Titus sends flowers to Balem. When he is finally allowed to visit, his brother can speak again if only in whispers. He wears a high collar, twined golden strands worked into clean lines.

It suits him well, Titus decides. His brother sits on a couch. His posture is heavy, as if his muscles were too weak to move. The hair at his temples is grey. Balem does not use the nectar often these days. He knows it is because their mother likes the lines of age on him.

Mr Night announces him, but before the splice is finished, Titus walks towards his brother. Slowly Balem tilts his head, his long fingers move like insect's legs, careful and refined.

— How good of you to come, Balem whispers. His annoyance is mild. He must be truly weary.

— Of course, Titus says.

Balem dismisses Mr Night with a glance. Then he looks back at Titus. A shiver runs down his spine. Suddenly Titus feels like a little boy again. Without thought he touches his own cheek, there where thousands of years ago Balem's ring cut open his skin.

Fond memories, brother? Balem asks.

— Titus does not answer and the smile he gives Balem is not quite as smooth as he would like.

— Mother is here, too I heard.

— Indeed she is, Balem says. His voice is quieter now. It strains him to speak. It is painfully obvious.

— I would not wish to exhaust you. I shall go and greet her, Titus says.

 

They dine together a few hours later. There are flowers everywhere, delicate pink peonies and violet rhododendrons. Their mother's choosing. They fill Balem's halls with a life they usually do not hold. As if someone brought children to play in a church.

Titus watches how a ripple goes through his brother's body as he sits down. How the sweet perfume of the flowers lies over him like a poisonous breath. He seems doused, tired and pained. It delights Titus beyond measure.

Their mother kisses Titus, her lips are soft on his own. They linger. Titus breathes her in and allows his hand to graze her shoulder as he leads her to her seat. Balem sits on one end of the table and his mother takes her place as head of the family on the other. It leaves Titus to her right. Kalique's place opposite to him remains empty. She is away on business matters.

They talk for hours this evening. Balem's voice gets gruffer by the minute. Their mother continues to ask him questions on all kind of matters. And she is never pleased with only a short answer. Rather she demands a mountainous amount of detail for every one thing. A deliberate torment. She is artful in its execution, a smile on her face. Suddenly Balem rises from his seat. His eyes are fixed on their mother. Knives. His silverware falls, clashing on the ground. Balem shuts the door heavily behind him. Their mother shoots Titus a look. The corner of her mouth is curled upward. Titus marvels at her. She gets up, too, all swaying hips and graceful steps. She leaves.

Titus huffs quietly to himself, picks up a grape with nimble fingers. Then he follows them.

 

He finds them in an empty hall. With their backs turned towards him they stand before a towering window. It is fashion with a pointed arch and framed by svelte yet grim columns.

And behind them the hurricane. The orange storm rages in aloof fury. They hear nothing of it but feel only the slightest tremor in the walls. Titus knows its size is greater than that of planets. And before its magnificence even his brother and mother pale.

He can hear them clearly.

— You are too easily swayed, their mother says.

Balem tilts his head. Titus can see how he clenches his fists. As if he were about to strike her. Instead he sinks down to his knees. Takes her hands in his and buries his face in them.

A quiet sound escapes him. A sob.

— You know I do not tolerate weakness, Balem. And neither does this world. You must not be broken.

His brother answers something, but Titus doesn't catch it.

— Get up, she says. Her voice quivers. He has never seen her like that. Her hands shake when she frames Balem's face. Titus can see their profiles now. Balem's cheeks are wet.

And before the wrathful orange storm they could have been anyone. But they aren't.

Titus' breathing quickens. He turns around. He leaves them to themselves and their misery.

 

 

**ix.**

 

He is weightless. His eyes are closed. Hands caress his naked body, too many and not enough. The splices murmur and moan. They hum against his skin. And Titus is consumed by their lips and tongues and teeth. Pleasure. He dreams of Balem. Just breathing, lounging in grave elegance, his eyelids so heavy and his lips so full. A little death on his mouth.

His brother is unmoved when everything else moves. What does it make him? Dead or a god?

 

 

**x.**

 

He licks at the inside of her thigh. One of her legs lies over his shoulder, the other dangles from the armchair. Kalique sighs. Titus looks up to her with a smile then he traces a wet line between her thighs with his tongue.

The sun gleams through the white damask curtains. Dust dances in the air.

Titus closes his eyes and pushes his tongue into her. A whirred sound. Then steps.

— Kalique, Balem's voice is quiet.

— Balem, she says with only a slight hitch to her breath.

— I came to discuss our upcoming meeting with Deïphobos Industries, he says and Titus can hear him step closer.

— Yes of course, Kalique says. Titus continues to push into her while he stimulates her with his fingers. Another sigh.

Suddenly there's a hand in his hair. His heartbeat quickens. Then Balem readjusts his position just ever so slightly.

— They mustn't decline our offer. For this we must stand united, Balem whispers.

— I am on your side as always, Kalique says. Her breathing is a little heavier now.

— So glad to hear that, Balem says. His hand is still in Titus' hair, still holds him in place. He shivers. Then he lets his tongue slide out and lets it continue the work his fingers have begun. Heat presses against the base of his spine. By the time Kalique comes his vision is veiled. She comes quietly as always. If they were alone he would continue to pleasure her, but they are not. Slowly he gets up from his knees. With his thumb and index finger he wipes his mouth. Balem looks at him. His lips are slightly parted, his gaze is lax in boredom. Then he bestows Kalique with his attention again.

She gets up, smooths down her dress and takes the arm Balem offers her. They leave him behind without another word.

 

 

**xi.**

 

The next time Balem's hand is in his hair he drags him to the edge of the bath. There'd been a rebellion on Ilios while Balem had been there. A coup d'etat in which Titus perhaps had his fingers.

Titus laughs. Then Balem pushes his head under water and he doesn't laugh anymore.

Panic washes over him, he grabs Balem's shoulders, his hands. A strike. Pain. Short breath. Water. He chokes and spits. Balem's hand around his throat. Pushing him down. Titus kicks out. Tries to turn around. No air, no air, fear takes over. He pushes his knee between Balem's legs. Balem crouches above him. Titus kicks him off. Gets up. Stumbles to the side. His lungs burn. He coughs up water. Balem slowly stands. His hair hangs into his eyes in dark-red strands. Titus can see his hands tremble.

 

He does not tell mother.

 

 

**xii.**

 

— What have we become after surpassing mortality? he asks Kalique.

— Gods, she says.

It is a lie of course. They are no less mortal than those they reap. More time is what they have.

There are these moments that still him. These moments in which he knows that he will not always be. That one day his consciousness will die. Then nothing.

That knowledge holds a terror he cannot shake. A dread inextinguishable. He fantasises about it. He can't stop it. It does not give him pleasure.

Sometimes Balem narrates his dreams. His voice like old, roughened silk over sandstone. He says: After long lost centuries, we enter the splendid cities: Void graveyards. We walk the streets of memories untold, we die in the lamplight of an empty world, we wake once more to this. Always to this. Brother, must you follow me? And Titus says: I must. Then he is underwater. Balem's fingers around his throat. His brother does not enjoy it, yet there lingers satisfaction in the act. Panic seizes Titus and he struggles. To no avail. He dies every time.

 

Perhaps, he thinks, it is a fetish of the wealthy to dream of ruin.

And he knows that he would kill a million more to live another day. It is what all three of them have in common. As for their mother — he isn't sure anymore. She uses the nectar seldomly, only every seventy years. She is old, so old. Now she refuses youth and beauty. She leaves their affairs to Balem and spends her time on a lonely, nameless planet. An island the size of Titus' ship is all the land on that planet. The rest is ocean. Wild and cold, stinking froth splashing against serrated black crags. The wind is so full of salt one has to scratch the clots from one's skin.

 

While Kalique stands in competition with Balem, Titus leaves business to them for a century or two. Let them tear each other's eyes out. He does not care.

 

He travels through the universe. Only one thing keeps him from the thought of death: sensation. Does he seek redemption or does he hunt pleasure? He's entirely unsure. But he takes everything he gets. The vastness of space is both a reminder and a distraction. There are many things to try, to use, love, however one may call it. Titus is a man of the flesh, for flesh is all he has. He is a glutton for beauty and always hungry.

His appetites vary. Little he refuses. But his heart is like a black hole and it would take another to make him stop. Yet he is far from Kalique and Balem. And perhaps Balem would devour him whole.

Kalique once said, I can see our brother as the last living creature.

His fragile figure before the empty wastes of the universe. He would whisper to the ruins of cities and bathe in the rays of a thousand suns, scattered across space. He would walk the beaches of black oceans, full of dust and bones. He would die before dawn. Mourning only the lives that could have been his to take. He would fall asleep with open eyes, pale as the moon, his shoulders bare and freckled, his long fingers trembling in one last shudder when finally he would understand that the victory was always death's and never his. What do you think, perhaps he would cry then? bite his lips open and curse mother for she brought him into existence, leaving the world to darkness and his hungry heart.

Titus had answered nothing. But he could see it, too.

 

 

**xiii.**

 

His spies whisper to him of meetings of the family Deïphobos and Carathis. Deals are being made. And as much as he would enjoy to watch Balem fall, he too is shareholder of Abrasax Industries. He wonders if their mother is aware of the situation. If she cares at all.

News travel fast. Titus doesn't waste time.

 

The nameless planet is cold and grim. Rain is drumming against the windows of the shuttle. Outside the world is a swirl of night. Heavy fog lies over the raging sea intertwining with shadows.

What lives underneath the stinking waves in the deep? What creatures, old and cruel wait for prey in the blackness? Titus shudders and pulls his coat tighter.

Skewed trees rake into the stormy sky. A wailing is in the air though no creature is to be seen.

An hour later he enters the vault his mother calls home. No ornaments adorn the walls. Roughly cut rock. Droplets of water run down and pool on the floor.

A maid with pale face welcomes them hurriedly.

— The lady is busy at the moment, she says when Titus asks to see his mother.

— Where is she? Titus asks again.

— S-she is in her Ladyship's private rooms. With Lord Balem.

Titus' heart beats faster. So he did forestall him.

With quick steps Titus makes his way, dismissing his guards with a flick of his hand.

 

Shouting. A thud. Carefully Titus opens the door, only enough to peek inside.

Balem's head is turned to the side. He's on the floor. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. Their mother stands over him. She is young again. Her dress is soaked, her hair wet. In her hand she holds a little stone statue. It is bloodied.

— You think this is how it goes? That you decide whether I renew this wretched body? She whispers.

Balem answers nothing.

— You have lingered in the chambers of deceit, she says. Now see where it brought you.

She goes down on her knees next to Balem. Her hand raised high.

— Mother, Titus says and comes inside. Her eyes meet his.

— Do it, Balem whispers. Their mother smiles.

She lets the statue fall and reaches out for Titus' hand. In a moment he is next to her and helps her stand. Balem doesn't look at either of them. His freckled green eyes gaze into nothing.

— Get up, their mother commands. When Balem does not react, she seizes his hair and yanks him to his knees, then to his feet. Titus holds his breath. Balem doesn't make a sound.

— I shall expect you two at dinner, their mother says.

Then she opens the clasps of her dress and lets it fall down. She leaves the wet garment behind. With her head raised high she exits the room.

There's something frail in the cadence of Balem's breath. Something Titus wants to twist his fingers into and wrench apart. Slowly Titus turns towards him. He strokes Balem's cheek. They say nothing.

 

Dinner is quiet. Balem has not let his wound be healed. He wears it with ruined grace. Forwardness perhaps. He holds himself like a man who watches death approach.

Later that night Titus sees their mother leave her chambers and enter Balem's.

The next morning Balem is quieter still. His eyes red and glassy, his collar turned up high. A quiver in his every move. He is beautiful that way. So utterly destroyed.

 

 

**xiv.**

 

Their mother knows exactly what to do to disunite the house of Deïphobos and Carathis. In less than a month it is done. Their mother takes up her seat in the council again. Balem is her adviser once more.

 

 

**xv.**

 

They lie in Kalique's bed eating dried dates and honeyed bread. The last rays of Cerise's sun fall through the damask curtains. Their skin is warm. Kalique smells of scented oils, lavender, citrus and a blend of sweet resin. She strokes his hair, his head lies in her lap.

— She hates her life, Kalique says.

— Who? He asks.

— Mother.

— Why?

Kalique doesn't answer. Instead she bends down to him. She kisses his forehead while her hand draws circles on his naked chest.

 

 

**xvi.**

 

Titus dreams of Aïdēs and of millennia long past. He dreams of its five black rivers and in each one he finds a part of Balem. His hands, his legs, his torso, his penis and his head. He stitches them back together with gilded thread. Their mother breathes life into him once more. She stands above him grimly as Balem weeps. Balem is rust-coloured and he is melted gold, he is ancient and newborn and he is damned, too. Perhaps they all are. But Titus doesn't know what that means.

 

 

**xvii.**

 

— You are ruining us, Balem whispers.

— Am I? Their mother says with the hint of a smile.

They are in a meeting, discussing Abrasax Industries' latest harvests and new investments. To be fair, Balem is right. Their mother's choices in the past year have not done them any good. Profits are decreasing. The house of Carathis is in the lead on the intergalactic market.

Kalique stares at their mother with carefully hidden defiance, while Balem stands, his eyes wide. Titus crosses his legs and watches the spectacle unfold.

— Are you trying to boycott us? Balem asks, his voice strained.

— Now, why would I do that?

— You will not destroy what I worked for, Balem hisses. Their mother only smiles.

 

 

A few weeks later a series of unfortunate events destroy the population of two of Carathis' planets. A terrible thing, really.

Their mother rages. Balem is calm and restrained.

He and Kalique continue to watch.

 

Who knows how long their trail of strength would have gone on? It does, however, not go on.

Their mother gets shot.

The assassin bites down on a pill of poison hidden in her teeth before anyone can seize her. She is one of their mother's maids and her shot is precise. It tears through their mother's head. She's in a medically induced coma now. And Balem is at her bedside every night.

— She'll live, Kalique says and Titus is not sure if that's disappointment in her voice.

 

 

**xviii.**

 

Titus has dinner with the Lady Deïphobos a week later. Of course she knows why he's there but that doesn't make his offer less valuable. And Titus always knew how to play this game. He has bribed himself into these halls and he has information to offer in exchange for a name — fortunately he keeps books of the affairs of all the wealthy families. Lady Deïphobos' husband and his mistresses are just a bit of data on a hard-drive that has been cultivated over millennia. Her eyes narrow when he slides an envelope over the cherry-wood table. She opens it up and swallows. She is graceful, Titus has to give her that.

— Very well, she says. Then she gives him the name of the real distributor whom the house of Carathis had bribed to transfer the girl into their mother's service. They were sloppy. Desperate.

Another week later the man is found and brought into Titus' care. It takes 15 days to break him. He confesses.

 

The security of the hospital is impenetrable. It also is why it takes him longer than an hour until finally he gets to see her. The lights are dim. Machines buzz. A piano nocturne plays quietly from some unseen speakers. Flowers everywhere. Among them peonies, red tulips, daffodils. Their smells are woven into the air. He steps in. Something scrunches.

He looks down. Pieces of shattered glass. Water pools in a sheen over the floor. Midst it lie scattered hydrangeas. His breath quickens. Then he sees him.

His brother sits on the floor, back against the side of their mother's bed. Arms wrapped around his knees. Head thrown back. Eyes wide open. Starring. They are red-rimmed. His face is waxen. His lips tremble. His whole body shakes ever so slightly.

— I have a man and a confession, Titus says.

Slowly Balem turns his head. Looks at him. And even after all those years … what he can see in these eyes still frightens Titus.

 

 

They sue for attempted murder. Though their lawyers are excellent it will take at least a couple of years until the case reaches the Supreme Court. And after that who knows. This kind of justice will not be satisfactory.

Kalique and Titus sit in Balem's bureau. Balem rises from the table they sit at.

— This will not stand, he says quietly.

 

This time neither he nor Kalique dare stand in his way.

Balem brings ruin. He is efficient and merciless. Titus doesn't know what it costs him, but Balem takes everything they have. He does not harvest the planets they have for his own good. He could have, of that Titus is sure. No, Balem eradicates the population of these ripe planets. Then he destroys their atmosphere and any chance of new harvests. It increases the value of the other industries, their own included. Legal issues are not fought over too harshly.

Only in secret their world trembles. Balem Abrasax has shown what he is capable of.

 

— That was dangerous and ruthless, their mother says after she is fully recovered. Her voice is cold.

Titus and Kalique sit next to her on the bed.

— It was necessary, Balem hisses. He stands before them. Tall and pale and impersonal. But his gaze is feverish. Their mother can see it, too.

 

 

**xix.**

 

— Mother will not forgive him, Kalique says and smiles snidely. She is gloating whenever someone else falls from favour with their mother.

— What? Titus asks.

— Wasting these planets, Kalique says. And she is right. Though their mother is back in the council she rarely consults with Balem, much less talks to him privately. As far as he can tell at least. Yet there is a sway in her hips when she walks past Balem and a curve to her spine. Balem looks at her with something in his gaze that Titus never found a name for.

 

 

**xx.**

 

Seraphi Abrasax is dead. Kalique tells him in person. Their mother is dead.

No word from Balem. The world erupts in chaos. They have to double security. The press is out of control. The investigations bring forth nothing. Nothing at all. And their mother lies in a casket with her brain smeared across her cheek. There are signs of a fight, but no scrape of skin can be found underneath her fingernails. No hair. No piece of cloth. She is clean of anything. Someone has been very precise. And yet there is such brutality in the way she was killed.

Titus vomits the moment Kalique leaves him alone. That night he gets drunk beyond anything. He does not call for his servants or his pleasure splices. By dawn he weeps quietly. The pain is unexpected. All those past millennia he thought he would not care. What a fool he is. What a child.

His mother is dead. He cannot fathom it.

 

Kalique does not answer his calls. Instead he has to listen to her owl-splice lecturing him. He has no head for business now. He does not care for organisational matters. He leaves it to his secretaries. And yet he feels the weight of it. Of an empire build over millennia, held up by one single person. One key stone. Titus is well aware that all the other families will try to snatch a part of her influence, of her power. The world as they know it is shifting. And there is only one who may keep it all together.

 

 

**xxi.**

 

 

— You are trespassing, Balem whispers. Titus turns around. The three suns of Rhea are burning red in the sky, dousing them in their feverish, flaming light. It blurs the contours of Balem's face. He stands before him like a fire-tongue, the cloth of his robe golden and rust-coloured.

I know, Titus says and takes a step towards Balem. Now he can see the drops of sweat rolling down his temple, gliding from his neck. But he is still and cold.

— What will you do? Titus asks.

— What has to be done, Balem says, looks at him a heartbeat longer, then turns to Mr Night who comes towards them, the clicking of his heels echoing in the otherwise empty board room. The colour of his face is patchy-white, his hair is in disarray and there is the slightest shudder to his voice when he addresses Balem. That wretched creature. For a moment Titus wonders what has transpired here before his arrival. It's a contract of some sort that Mr Night hands over to Balem now. Titus only gets a glance. In pale blue lines glows the snake-entwined head — their mother's sigil. Balem swallows. Titus takes a step closer, he can see Balem tensing.

— Is that her will? Titus asks.

Balem hands the contract back to Mr Night.

— There will be time for this later, he says to the rat-splice. With a courteous nod Mr Night leaves.

— You will not try to keep it from us now, will you brother dear? Titus asks and waves his hand towards the rat-splice.

— I said there'll be time for this later, Titus, Balem rasps.

— Of course, Titus says.

 

They both know Balem will not file a tax-grievance for his trespassing. He never does. Both Titus and Kalique have the habit of visiting unannounced. The paperwork alone would be too much effort and too little gain. Balem has no need to bother with such bagatelles.

When Titus has resigned to his guest chambers, he tries to contact Kalique again. She doesn't answer. Something twists inside Titus. As if clammy fingers reached up his throat. He has the sudden urge to drink, to peel his clothes off, feel the silken sheets on his skin and the warmth of another body. With a sigh he sinks back into a winged chair, his eyes flutter shut.

Mother is dead.

The knowledge hits him like a fist to the stomach. Nausea claims him. He stumbles to the bathroom.

When he comes back out a call from Kalique is waiting for him. He accepts it. She materialises in front of him.

— Balem is keeping Mother's will to himself, she says flatly.

— I know, Titus says.

— Get it, Titus. He has no right to do that.

Titus leans back against the wall and looks at her. Glimmering jewellery and smooth skin. Yet she is not here where she could so easily do what she just asked of him. She is somewhere far away. Alone. The sharpness of her smile is double-edged. It brings Titus some satisfaction, after she has declined his calls for so long, but not enough. He purses his lips.

— I don't care, he says coldly. Get the will yourself, Kalique. I'm sure you could spare some time.

He ends the call before she can reply. His eyes flutter shut. He cannot breathe.

Too many pictures colliding in his head. The white sands of Aïdēs. His mother's hand. The little presents she always had brought him, stones and books, all those treasures. He keeps them in a special room on his ship. It is as if he could hear them screaming. He cannot bear the thought of them. They feel like cuts of a poison-crusted blade. Her smiles at dinner. Her lips on his. The letters she'd send him from her nameless planets. Some of which sill lie unopened in a drawer of his desk. And after all these millennia, he realises, he knows nothing of her. Nothing more than any common man would know. Nothing of her thoughts or desires. He had never wanted to.

 

The sound of his steps echo in the hallway. It is empty, not even a sim passes him by. It can only mean that the outer circles of the palace are crawling with security. Balem is never insufficiently prepared.

His brother's private chambers are on the highest floor of the palace. It takes around fifteen minutes to get there from his guest rooms. Then he arrives.

Pointed arches. Delicate mullions end in cross-ribbed vaults. 128 feet above them the ceiling. Painted glass windows. The arches and rake struts mirror the fall of light, yet there is only blackness outside. The void. It's long after dusk.

Balem stands in front of the windows, his back to Titus. Slowly Titus walks towards him, breathes in the scent that lingers here. Dried dates. A hint of camphor.

— There's a nightmare slumbering inside me, Balem says quietly. He turns around. Lids heavy, lips parted, a glint of teeth. He seems weightless. Like a breath of lightning at an indifferent sky. Nothingness in his gaze. Perhaps, Titus thinks, his brother has looked too deeply into the void. Has let in inside. And wouldn't that be like Balem? To tear himself open. His own fingers deep between his ribs. No sound would flee from his desireless lips as the void crept inside. And all those years of matchless night would yet seem kind to Balem, would they not? Compared to what he held in his chest.

— It's so easy to forget that you are not a monster, Titus whispers.

They are close. In the silence. Something nameless has been born between them by millennia outlived. It is not kinship, nor is it sentiment. But they are not alien to one another. And that is enough.

— We're all monsters, Titus, Balem says.

Perhaps they are. Titus looks at him and smiles.

 

Titus does not remember how he follows Balem to his bedroom chamber, but he remembers the metallic click of the door as it closes. He is breathless, wide eyed, and oh so hungry.

The scent of camphor is twined into the air. He steps closer to Balem. His brother watches him with narrowed eyes. Cold. Balem tilts his head ever so slightly, a mantis laying in wait.

Titus presses his lips against Balem's. A ravenous kiss. Insidious. He's never kissed like this before. Without thought he pulls away the clasps holding Balem's garments. He reveals his flesh inch by inch. Then Titus goes down on his knees. Balem exhales a strangled breath. A shiver runs down his back. Slowly Titus licks along his hipbone. Balem fists a hand into his hair. Though his grip is strong, he does not force his movements. How lovely. Without much preamble he wraps his lips around Balem's cock. Heat strikes through his body. He takes him in deeper. God, yes. He wants to see Balem undone, he wants to tear him apart, he feels like drowning, fear gnaws at his bones and yet the rush of power elates him. He does not stop until Balem's breathing is ragged.

They are in bed. Skin against silk. Their garments are tangled around their limbs. Damask and moire and freckled skin. Nails down his back, pain — he flips Balem onto his stomach, pushes his head into the pillow. He is not gentle. There is no room for such between them. There never has been.

The world spins out of orbit, or perhaps it is just him. The smell of sweat, of arousal, camphor.

Titus takes his time to work Balem open. His brother whimpers into the sheets. Curses, too. Titus leans over him and bites into his earlobe. Murmurs filthy adorations against his cheek while his fingers move inside him. There lies desperation in the hitch of Balem's breath. Secrets unspoken. But Titus does not care for them.

When he slides into Balem everything fades into patterns of colour, forms stretching and turning. Their mother is dead and Balem's flesh is warm. He pushes deeper. His hands caress his brother's hips, then sink lower to stroke him to their rhythm. They move against each other, first slowly, then with every thrust more frantically. There's no redemption to be found here. Mother's face burns before his eyelids, the brightness of her smile. He wonders if Balem can see it too. He bites his lip until he draws blood. Sound and vision blur and leave him moving like the creature he is; selfish and ravenous and never satisfied.

Balem comes first. He makes no sound, but his lips part around a choked moan. Titus pushes his brow against Balem's shoulder, pressing his fingers into his skin and comes a moment later.

 

Afterwards they do not speak. Balem lays on his back, staring at the ceiling. His skin now must be cool to the touch. Titus does not dare to find out. Balem does not move. Just stares.

Laughter creeps up Titus' throat but he keeps it inside, mashes it together with the tears.

He is cold, and so far from home. Aïdēs' black rivers and white beaches. Never will she wander those shores with him again. The thought does not hurt now. He feels nothing. A smile curves his lips. Then he turns around and leaves.

 

 

**xxii.**

 

The ship is moving into orbit of Aïdēs. Titus watches. It is hard to breathe. There's an old story Kalique had told him when they were children. Of bad dreams. How creatures old and wicked would sit on humans' chests while they slumbered. Their weight crushing the air out of their lungs. How they would wake with a nameless terror. Being dragged into existence as if torn from shadows that clung to them.

He is motionless. Inside him silence has fallen. No echo.

He looks upon the surface of Aïdēs and dreams of Balem. He is rust-coloured and deathless.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think! ;)


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